The Fallen

Arc in the wind sin
shimmer never kisses
anymore souls my eye
kills as it wishes.

Strewn all about you
is your concern find
the inner workings
created by my design.

Say goodbye to me
and the last thing be
is a person once now
down on their knee.

I can’t have worship
nor have all tender
things for I break all
that seems to enter.

This smoke wrote this
in the air is a wisp.
In my hand confession
to the devil like this.

Terror I am for all
the branches they fall
where none pick up
is where I crawl.

Bugs for the dirt see
the pile upon grave
that eeks a smell you
with hand swat away.

The burning done
on this Sunday my son,
God tells me quietly,
is my youth undone.

Bush – Little Things

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